The Anniversary Present
by LaceGreen
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a complicated past. There is one memory that he desperately wants to forget. Jim Moriarty is not going to let that happen. Warning: slash, dark.
1. Love letter

Chapter 1: Love letter

Set the scene. Imagine being alone in a dark room. The kind of dark where closing your eyes to keep out the fear makes no difference no matter how hard you would want it to. Imagine cold air hitting you at all sides to the point where both fingers and toes had become numb and immovable. There is nothing to see, nothing to deduce, in the dark, naked as a newborn and inside a parameter soundless as an unmanned tree crashing with out a timber. The hours passing that feel like centuries drag without guidance and it becomes slow torture. Imagine the sound of someone entering with sinister intentions as a relief from being left in the dark. Someone has come to hurt you, but you feel happy because it is something to remind you that you are still alive. Something to deduce, something different to fear than the nothingness.

What a tragic thought, a lost fear, something denied to memory countless times by many, voluntary or not. That one memory that haunts the soul of a damaged human being can be hidden with denial, multiple personalities, and amnesia... for a normal damaged human being that is. But, Sherlock Holmes is not normal human being. He is not an angel that can deal with emotions in phycological ways unknown. Though useless to him, he remembers his time of captivity much to his dismay.

As much as he tries to discard of the distracting pain his mind palace refuses to let it go, those hours of hell. He will wake up in the middle of the night and turn on his bedside lamp to illuminate a blinding dark. If it becomes too silent he will pick up his beloved violin and play a violent yet melodious tune to awaken himself. The elixirs he has chosen to save himself from reliving _that_ horrible time are temporary and become less credible each time they are used.

His flat mate, John Watson is still in the dark about Sherlock's traumatic experience. However that does not make John Watson a horrible person for not picking up the red flags. If anything, Sherlock is an excellent actor, pretending as if the sleepless nights do not bother him and pretending that the near tears expression he occasionally has is just a trick of the light. Each day that passes, he feels himself getting closer to his John, he fully trusts him but he shields himself as well. He hides. Sherlock hides and hides, not wanting to seem weak to any man and John thought nothing of it at the start. But, after another night of hearing him wake up screaming, John's concern buds.

He asks, "Was it a nightmare?" The awkward pop of conversation startles Sherlock, all this time he has been sitting quietly, tightening his violin strings and hadn't noticed that John had been sitting across from him for quite some time. It is a summer morning on 221B Baker street and the smell of burnt toast and orange juice pulp still hang limply and waft with the air from the open window. John waits patiently for Sherlock to answer, his budding concern turns to a bloom with Sherlock's brief moment of hesitation and suddenly wide eyes.

"Yes, you could say that. But, its no bother to me. Simple brain chemistry not even I can avoid." Sherlock puts his violin down and plunges into deep thought, his way of changing the subject. John, is unconvinced yet gets up to leave anyway, him being late for his new job at a small clinic, something to help pay the bills. And as John grabs his wallet and heads for the door for a daily grind he doesn't particularly prefer when compared to watching Sherlock do what he does best: make life exciting, he wonders what a person like Sherlock is afraid of.

John is well aware that although extremely smart, his flat mate is still human. 'He must have some fears. What do machine men dream of?' He feels so consumed with the idea he can help himself and asks, "What was your nightmare about?" Sherlock doesn't seem to hear him. John hates it when he goes into thought like that, ignoring exterior forces. He simply rolls his eyes and just as he touches the door knob, Sherlock abruptly answers.

"It was about being within nothing," John let out a sigh at the pretentious sounding response.

"I'll be back by 16:00, try not to put too many dead bodies in the fridge." With that the doctor leaves. Sherlock sneers a bit at the door that John had used, thinking, 'thats ridiculous, I can't fit a whole body with the size of that fridge... only appendages.' He also feels put off at how his friend didn't read between the lines of his statement about his nightmare. When he said being within nothing, that nothing is what he fears. To be in a state where _he_ is the stupid one, to be in complete darkness where he can deduce nothing, not being able to predict what will happen next. Sherlock doesn't think too low of John though for not picking that up. He knows that that is just how the ordinary think, thats how their minds work. As the bell tower not far off signals the hour of 8:00, he hears John from outside calling a taxi.

Without thinking Sherlock nonchalantly shouts, "Get milk on your way back," towards the open window. He thinks John replies but the sound of morning traffic drowns him out and so Sherlock is left to infer. John has good ears, so he guesses he got the message.

He remembers the tightly wound violin in his arms and begins to play Gymnopedie No. 1 at double time.

_"Sweet little Sherlock... are you afraid of the dark?"_

A harsh flat note brings an end to the classic and the instrument lowers from his shoulder instantly, accompanied with a small violent gasp and a vacant stare. There it is again. The memory persistent to stay one step behind every one of his thoughts. Out of the whole experience, that line haunts him most of all. The cliche so simple and harmless as 'afraid of the dark' was uttered by _that _person with such a tone, it still sends him into a horrible anxiety.

He feels his hands quake without instructing them to do so and curses under his breath for loosing focus on his memory repression. He wants that time of his life gone forever. It was horrible and hellish, yet that was not why he wanted it gone so much. For he cares nothing for self pity or disturbed nostalgia, he wants it gone because its a distraction to his work. He considers himself married to his work and this constant intrusion of what happened ages ago needed to go.

Already he wained down the experience considerably, pushing down the details like what exactly happened. He know he was held captive, it was cold, dark, he had no clothing, and the person that abducted him put him through a form of extreme pain, though he can't recall which kind. It wasn't denial or amnesia that caused this missing puzzle piece, it was simple as being put on extensive drugs when in captivity causing a jigsaw puzzle of recollection. It wasn't the memory itself that bothered him, instead that it had happened to him. The fact of the experience is enough of a nuisance. That pain and terrified feeling of uncertainty of the nothing is a useless to him and he is more than eager to put to rest.

He looks at the clock. 8:30... quite a drifting train of thought to be sitting in one place for so long without realizing. As he contemplates whether to try his frozen eye lid experiment or some basic DNA comparison to kill some time, he hears none other then his dear land lady Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs.

"Sherlock," she says in her normal motherly voice "your mail has been building up at the door you know. Its starting to make a pile." Sherlock gets up from his seat and steps over to her. She holds an enormous pile of junk mail and advertisements in her hands.

He doesn't bother to relive her of them as he simply puts it, "Its of no use as far as I know. All my clients write by e-mail and John sorts out the bills." He picks up one that leaped from the women's arm and focuses on the small print words below the alarmingly red words: Win a Getaway Trip! Obviously intended for those who look but don't observe the fine print about having to spend 900 pounds to enter, little chance of winning. "Throw them out will you?"

"Not your housekeeper," She says plainly, yet exits with them in arm, quite a few dropping to the floor like deflated multi colored leaves. Sherlock sighs in an annoyed way and picks them up lazily. He really wants to start that experiment the more he thinks about it. He sees the usual junk mail and catalogs however one out of the bunch catches his eyes. A thick piece of paper, slightly damp. It came in days ago because it hadn't rained in quite some time.

There are no obnoxious labels or brand names on it, in fact the paper's handwriting is so small if it stayed any longer in the rain, the words would be unrecognizable. What stands out to him are the initials stroked on in very expensive looking coal black ink. Delicately hand written in wavy broad stroked letters, it glints mysteriously past the layer of dirty water that covers it, they are the letters: JM. He flips it over and reads the inscription.

I know your little secret from your past.

Being trapped in that tiny room was fun wasn't it?

You know which one I mean.

Lets talk about it.

Come and find me, Sherlock.

Underneath the text is a series of 'x's to symbolize kisses, that doesn't shock him though, he expected no less from Jim. It is the letter's words that disturb him. He tries not to waver as it sinks in. The spider knows. Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off the sick parody of a love letter. He thinks back to _that_ time, feeling no other choice. How could anyone outside the kidnapper know about _that_ time? The man got away and the investigation turned up nothing, not to mention he was only 14 at the time and didn't even know that Jim Moriarty existed then and he was pretty confident that its the same vice versa. At least he used to think that.

It couldn't have been any other instance though, he has many different secrets from his childhood but its the line about trapped in the tiny room that gets him. Sherlock realizes that Jim knows something about that, something he himself is unaware of. He sets it down on the table, still in a blank shock as he traces the initials with his fingers and mumbles, "come and find you? I'll do just that."

Without another second to think about the consequences this decision would inevitably lead to, he gets out a small slip of scratch paper to leave a note for John. The last thing he wants is for get him involved in this, although Jim's letter didn't say come alone, bringing John along would be a danger to the both of them. After scrawling down a semi convincing ramble about being out of light bulbs and having to get more he sets it down on John's chair and hopes that he'll buy it.

Sherlock makes the decision that putting on his signature coat and scarf on a warm summer day will not be ideal in weather hot enough to melt butter now that the wind has died out, so he decides against it, wearing nothing more than his usual button up shirt and black trousers. Before leaving, Sherlock goes to John's room and grabs his gun from the not very cleverly hidden stash box, putting it up under his shirt, the back of his belt and departs.

He thinks of Moriarty and why he'd do this. If he knows something that could be used as either a form of leverage or an upper hand, why bring it up now of all times after all these years? The notion is random at best but then again Jim isn't one to be mentally sound or even logical when it comes to timing. He leaves Jim's letter behind because he doesn't need it. He instantly recognized the traces of his whereabouts that Jim left for him on purpose, even with a portion of it swept away by rain he knows exactly where he is going. He calls for a taxi on the curb and slides into the back seat, instructing the man driving of his wanted destination, "The Savoy."


	2. Forced rush

Chapter 2: Forced rush

The standard issue taxi moves through the city like a timid snake, stopping at time then striking again with sudden speed, jolting Sherlock out of his tied up thoughts by force just so he can fall into them again. Sherlock looks to the window right of him and notices that vapid gray clouds shield his eyes from an over bearing sun. He tiredly rolls his eyes at the metaphorical weather, a divine sent cliché, if you will. He gets a slight chill up his spine as the car comes to a stop as he has arrived.

The Savoy is an expensive hotel, 5 star, the perfect chance for Jim to show off. Jim is the biggest show off he knows, not counting himself. He wonders if any of the workers there notices how much of an incongruous person he is when around the ordinary. Then again, Jim has been known to have a talent of blending in when he needs to. Jim can put on different clothes, less urbane and more common to the eyes, and put on an accent that differs from his irish routes, maybe more relaxed and slow, and fool every soul that saw him. Sherlock knows Jim to carry different personas for days at a time if need be. Sherlock might be able to put on a mask of personality for a rough bit of convincing but even then he feels wrong on the inside for hiding away. Jim does what ever it takes and more, even if it means risking his true self in the process.

He steps out of the taxi and pays the driver, a man that didn't say two words since he got in acts just as silent even as he takes the crumpled money handed to him. Sherlock watches with pallid eyes as the black snake rushes off to another paycheck. The clouds goes from ominous gray to shades darker it seems with every step that Sherlock takes closer to the hotel. The attendants standing by the curbs are all walking about eager to help those who have money. He blurs past them like they are ghosts, not making eye contact with a single one, even as a very nervous one first day on the job runs right into him, jamming the side of a suit case hard against his leg, he ignores the boy's apologies and continues forward. He stops when he comes to a man holding a newspaper in front of him, sitting on a plush couch in the luxurious lobby. The front page mentions a minor terrorist attack, a political sex scandal, and a serial killer that killed himself as a form of poetry.

"Anything interesting happening today?" Sherlock asks casually.

"No, everything is ordinary..." He lowers the paper and offers a normal, friendly smile with a slight wide eyed trait to himself, "I'm surprised that you came alone or did you just want a little quality time with me?" He puts the paper back up in a huff of disappointment. "I thought you were smarter than to come alone. You're getting a bit slow, babe." Sherlock rolls his eyes. He despises pet names at the best of times but has a personal vendetta against Jim blatantly directing them towards him. He stands his ground, trying to keep calm, chooses his words carefully or at least as best he can considering Jim's talent for turning peoples words on them.

"You know why I'm here, Jim. What did you have to do with that time?" Jim flicks a page over and gives a cheerful whistle as he eyes an article about a massive prison break attempt. Sherlock lowers his voice to a serious and dark tone as he is loosing patience but slows down his word to be sure that Jim pays attention, "What did you have to do with that time?"

Jim breaks down of his cheerful tone to down right flirtatious. "Be specific, darling. There are a lot of times." He begins to rattle off different times and days of the year only to fade off as if he got bored of his own 'playing nice' act. His expression shows a brief sense of glee with himself though, knowing that it annoys Sherlock. Sherlock wishes that they weren't in a public place because he wants to pull out John's gun more than anything if only to speed up this tedious process. He wants answers, wants them now, and hopes that this isn't just wasting his time. After seeing Sherlock's impatient furrowing of his brow, Jim stops his friendly smile and utters his next words with such a deadpan voice it nearly sounds inhuman, "oh, you mean that time when the bad man took you and touched all over until you moaned." His eyes fall are directly on Sherlock now, he tosses the paper blatantly on the polished floor and he continues, "I'm sure you have questions, come to my room and lets see what we can find out." His childish expression reappears as he stands up, uncomfortably close to Sherlock and motions towards the lifts with a suggestive tilt of his head.

Sherlock stares with challenging eyes, but only to hide shock at how he could not remember something like getting sexually assaulted. Him, the man who barely even comprehends a majority of it thinks he'd remember something like that. He feels he can hardly even stand now that this development has been added to the equation, but he manages to keep his knees from buckling over.

Concentration is a tricky thing when something shocking has been said, so he slows down. He slows down everything. Though he'd prefer to be alone for going to his mind palace, he closes his eyes and cancels out the exterior noises of tourists and business men alike. He goes through memory after memory yet as hard as he tries he can't find any sexual interactions, not a single one. Jim is fascinated at seeing Sherlock resorting to going into that hard drive of a mind of his. To be honest, he always wanted to see Sherlock in his element like this, he just didn't expect to be happening in such a not so intimate time. He pouts a bit at that, but he knows that the surrounding morons can be easily taken care of with a simple command if he needs be.

When Sherlock feels he is not getting anywhere he comes out of his trance with an unintended gasp, mostly out of frustration. "Oh," Jim copies the gasp but adds a half moan at the end, "that was wonderful. Was it good for you too?" Somehow Sherlock catches the innuendo in how people say that after intercourse... as far as he knows at least. He does not find the little joke funny at all. Sherlock backs away, so confident in his own brain and convinces himself of something easier to swallow, 'Jim is just lying. He always lies. I would remember something like that.'

"No one ever 'touched' me, you're lying" he has a form of matter-of-fact in the execution of the line.

"Maybe I am." Jim shrugs and gets out his phone defensively like a teenager trying to ignore a parent, he texts at lightning speed. "You know I like this whole banter as much as you do but, wanna carry this out more privately? With the things I have planed you won't want _others_ to be around..." He lifts his eyes briefly, referring to the unsuspecting civilians, "come along, dearest." He doesn't stop texting but he does make his way over to the lifts, so confident that Sherlock will follow.

Sherlock doesn't move, "I'm not interested in games right now Jim. And your crazier than I thought you were if you think I'm going anywhere with you willingly." Jim stops but he doesn't turn to give his usual fake overreaction, he still texts furiously as if his life depends on it. "I could leave right now, you know." Sherlock says, though he can't be positive that Jim had _nothing_ to do with his kidnapping, he feels like this whole situation will escalate to something more if he were to stay a second longer, something he had no intention of being a part of. He wishes he could think more clearly to assess the situation better. Being around Jim made him feel slower, less quick on his feet, less time to think. Not to mention that thinking was starting to slow a bit due to his leg still throbbing from being hit with a suit case.

The noise of the lobby interferes with his thoughts more and more as a married couple and their entire reception it seems enter the room, the doors around them including the front ones all shut in synchronization. He overhears a women mention how ridiculous it was that they had lighting problems in every ballroom, having to be forced into the front of the hotel. He looks at the young blushing bride kiss the groom playfully just as Sherlock uttered the words 'I could leave right now'. Sherlock notices this, the way that all came together in a bizarre way and his eyes seer into Jim's back. There is something... too perfect about this timing.

"I love weddings..." Jim mumbles as he turns around to face Sherlock, a sizable distance between them now since Sherlock has refused to move, "too bad they always end in tears." He holds up the phone so that Sherlock can see the screen. He hesitates, but he moves in closer to see it. Its a series of codes entered into a blank white background. "If you follow like a good boy, this hotel won't have a lot of dead bodies on their hands." His finger brushes the send button slightly, making Sherlock tense but he shakes his head, not wanting to lower himself. Sherlock mouths the word, 'bluff'. Jim gives a disappointed sigh. "That new happy couple are right under the vents, looks like they are going to die first." He pushes the button with a dramatic flair before Sherlock can even try to talk his way out of it, instantly the lights go dim and a barley visible smoke leaks from the air way. Sherlock widens his eyes, Jim smirks and speaks in a reassuring voice, "don't fret though, you've already had the antidote injected into you on your way in." Sherlock mentally slaps himself for thinking that bell boy bumping into him was an accident. It was then that the tiny needle attached to that suit case jabbed into his leg, forcing the antidote into him. "Disobeying leads to death, ask any empire thats ever stood and they'll tell you the same."

He looks around frantically to search out any attendants that could help but the few employees left keep their heads down. They are in on it too. When Jim said he had plans, he wasn't kidding. "Stop this." Sherlock grabs Jim's shoulders aggressively, "Stop this now." The young couple collapses to the floor unconscious. As heartless as Sherlock could be seen, he doesn't want innocent people to die right in front of him because of his stupid pride. "I'll go with you, just turn it off!" Sherlock raises his voice, almost showing panic. Jim smiles eagerly, enjoying the view. He loves so much to see the man frustrated. Three more people fall to the ground, others barely have the strength to stand and lean against the walls. One little girl begins to cry in confusion, clinging to her unconscious mother.

"Oh gosh Sherlock you're so serious, making such a big deal out of this." He takes his phone and starts to dial a number at a slow pace on purpose. Sherlock lets Jim go, there is now a full on smoke cover blanketing the already dim lobby. Now Jim looks like an actual grinning demon hiding in the mist. Jim lifts the phone to his ear and his voice turns professional as he talks into the receiver, "yeah its me. My friend wants it off..." He laughs a bit, like the person on the other side told a wonderful joke, "I know right? Not like they're important or anything. People dying is nothing. Boring people dying is even less than nothing... uh huh..." he pauses and continues answering in conversational yes and no. Sherlock raises his voice to a yell.

"Stop it!" His hands bawl in fists and his breath goes erratic like how the cab started and stopped at sudden jolts. He hates to be the one with no say, no idea what will happen, having fate toss him around. He has no control on this situation, that alone thrusts him into distress. Jim's curious eyes fall back on Sherlock.

"Turn it off for now, Seb. But, don't shut it down. May need a little more persuasion later." He ends the phone call and lowers it from his face, giving a caring look that could be mistaken for actual concern. Jim and his masks and personas never cease to amaze Sherlock. The doors don't open but the smoke stops being emitted and the collapsed people start to breath normally once again, accompanied now by confused chatter from the party. Jim goes back to the screen with the code on it. "That was a preview, the whole place could be filled with this stuff in a matter of minuets. So... take my hand, love?" The workers in on the attack go to help those still on the floor, explaining a carefully spun lie about a gas leak and how it will be fixed shortly. The doors open and the hotel comes back to life, the reception leaves in a shocked huff, or rather they are forced out by Moriarty's men. Now that he's made a point they have become little more than specs of dust to him. All new unsuspecting victims enter the hotel without any idea what just went down seconds before. It takes Sherlock a moment to calm down after witnessing such a total abuse of power.

Sherlock just saw the life nearly get sucked out of the lungs of bystanders. He won't lie and say it wasn't exciting or new or a rush. Any non boring situation though gives him a slight rush comparable to a high, no matter the execution. Even if its time consuming or sloppy it has this effect on Sherlock. Thats just to ammeter work that takes very long though. Jim messed with human life as easy as a snap of the fingers with no real warning. Sherlock has to shake his head a bit to come down from that forced rush. He comes down with a thud though. The realization of what happened beyond that inner excitement: the work of a madman. Only when he is completely neutral once again does he notice Jim's extended hand. Reluctance and reality set back in, the reality of doing what it takes to keep others alive.

Sherlock takes it after what seems like a decade of inner debate and Jim lowers it down so they are holding hands as if they are in young love, "See? That wasn't so hard. A little bit of obedience suits you." He doesn't let go as he leads Sherlock to the lift. Sherlock doesn't dare protest Jim's tight grip or anything he does for that matter. After seeing the new level of crazy that Jim just hit. It is a rare time that Sherlock Holmes is genuinely scared of what Jim is capable of, that he could kill hundreds in the blink of an eye and it wouldn't even slow him down. Jim almost murdered those people just to get Sherlock to come upstairs with him. Forced rush aside, he finds witnessing all that mess was not at all worth the moment of ecstasy or part of the plan. He came here to get answers about the time he was kidnapped, but now he spirals into something darker than he ever thought he would.

"Don't look so nervous, Sherlock. Today is supposed to be a happy occasion." The lift doors open at a glacial pace, "just because I'm willing to kill every single person in this building if you try to run away from me, doesn't mean I've gone off the deep end." His grip on Sherlock's hand becomes painful as he practically pulls him into the lift. Sherlock gives one last look at the lobby, at the innocents, at the safety in numbers as the doors close, a threatening sliver of light falls on the center of Jim's face. "I'm just as insane as usual."


	3. Moriartea

Chapter 3: Moriartea

As the pair depart from the lift and enter a hallway that seems endless on both sides, Jim tugs at Sherlock's hand. All loving touch sucked out of it though since Sherlock dug his finger nails into Jim's palm in the lift when the man started to imply a sexual relationship between Sherlock and John. Jim pulls him in a quick sharp turn, "that wasn't very nice." He sounds scorned and spiteful. Sherlock's nails bedded deep enough to break skin and red marks still shown.

"Neither is strapping bombs to people and rigging hotels with poison..." he counters with a healthy dose of sarcasm, but that childish way of thinking just seems to put Jim in a better mood. They pass rooms quickly, as do other guests that walk by unaware of the danger they are in. Most all of them with one glance at two grown men holding hands come to an understandable conclusion. Even so Sherlock gives them each a death stare for there questioning looks. When one man who didn't even see them runs into Sherlock, harshly and with no warning, Jim stops at sudden.

The sloppily dressed man rudely glares at Sherlock and sputters out in a thick posh accent, "Watch where you're going, queer..." For a person like Sherlock, a comment like this doesn't matter to him even in the slightest, especially coming from a complete stranger. He just checks him off on his long lists of imbeciles that he has kept track of for sport in a way, assures himself that that is what anyone would assume from how tightly knit their hands are, and is more than ready to refocus on the real problem at hand. Jim however, doesn't move at all as he looks with murderous intent towards the man, blood lust fills his aura.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the theatric hate gaze. However, he does grow a concern that the imbecile will take an 'accidental' fall from three flights of stairs if this awkward loath atmosphere continues. All Sherlock needs is something to grab Jim's attention away from this situation. He speaks up loud enough for the man now escaping Jim's wrath to hear but, he directs his words towards Jim. "Come on, _dear_. Is our room that way?" The posh man turns his head back with a start, disgusted.

"Yes it is." Jim pushes back Sherlock's hair affectionately, he calls after the man who has begun to actually speed walk away from them, "you live another day! Thank this queer!" Sherlock can't help but crack a smile at how horrified the moronic man looks. Jim can't help but revel in this glorious moment with his Cheshire grin. They look like two shadows from the same person as they continue their way together. When they make it to the hotel suite, as soon as the door closes, Jim bursts into laughter. "You are incredible, Mr. Holmes." He says with glee, "that was brilliant!"

Sherlock finally breaks Jim's death grip with a flailing swoop of his arm but cracks a light smile anyway, "that was only to keep you from making him die a violent death." Jim smiles in agreement, knowing he probably would do that in one way or another. Sherlock knows that Jim was slightly possessive over him but when that man insulted Sherlock, he might as well been insulting Jim. In Jim's deranged mind, Sherlock is his to ridicule and no one else's. Now that the laugher has died down he beckons him further into the enormous hotel room which includes a kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and a couple bedrooms. The furniture is all classic, the ceilings are tall with crown molding, and of course it's all what Sherlock could never afford. Jim breezes into the kitchen and takes a bite out of a red apple. Sherlock is not far behind yet still moves cautiously.

"You do know me, Sherlie. You know just what to say to change my moods. Hell, I was a few seconds away from pulling your gun and shooting him in the face." Sherlock freezes, all relaxation dropping from him, "oh don't look so shocked. I'm surprised security didn't pull you over the way it sticks out so much." He sets the bitten apple down on the counter and comes behind Sherlock, his hand lightly touches the gun through the thin shirt fabric as he passes, "so dangerous."

Still, Sherlock feels a layer of safety disappear now that he exposed his element of surprise. He follows Jim to the sitting room, acting untouched, like that was just part of the plan. Jim has made himself comfortable in a chair and in the one next to him there lie a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock tilts his head, "what are you implying?"

Jim glanced over to the chair next to him, "Oh, those are left over from...something else." He laughs light heartily at the specific memory, "but, if you're so eager, I won't stop you from trying them on."

Sherlock moves them to the table next to the chair and sits down, "before you say anything else I must ask, that note that you sent me was there for days. Do you wait in the lobby all day on the off-chance I'd show up?"

For a while Jim is quiet, "how about I tell you that when this is all said and done?" He does not wait for Sherlock's opinion. "Lets talk about why you really came here...your kidnapping." He takes a breath and leans back, absorbing the wonderful expression that Sherlock is giving off, one of full attention. "His name was Leland Spore, age 37 at the time. He was your stalker. Oh man, he loved you. He was nuts about you. I assisted him in kidnapping you." Jim raises his hand in the air like he is a hysterical victim, in his usual showmen fashion. "I did have something to do with your pain, I admit it! It is because deep down I'm just a lost soul with a checkered past that has no other outlet for strained emotion. Take me to the coppers, Sherlock, before I hurt anyone else!" Sherlock's eyes widen in total shock, fake confession aside, what he really caught his ear was the part about Jim assisting it. "oh, sorry, that's not a well paced plot synopsis, not enough suspense... tea?" Now, Sherlock can't help but grip the arms of the chair out of anxiety.

"No..." His voice has lowered to a threatening growl.

"Did I hit a nerve? Chill out, little Lock. That was just the preview." He leans forward, "are you ready for the story?"

"Just tell me what happened."

Jim stretches out, giddy with nostalgia. "It was one of my first clients. I was still pretty young in the game. There was this one little girl that I had a slight vendetta against, a personal matter that I may tell you about another day, the point is that I _hated_ her." His voice gets dark on the word hated, a slight growl behind it. "I spun my plan so perfectly, all I needed was the right kind of murder weapon, a specific kind. However, a kid can't walk into any corner store, ask for an uncommon poison and leave no questions asked, no I had to find a crazy willing to become a supplier." Sherlock listens intently, still not knowing how this story could connect to him. "Are you sure you don't want tea? I know I do." Jim is about to get up as Sherlock grabs his arm forcefully.

"I'm loosing my patience..." Sherlock says, "so you were linked to him. Where are you going with this?"

Jim sees the intensity in Sherlock's eyes. He decides to humor Sherlock for a bit more, "okay, I'll finish the story. But, then I'm going to have tea." Sherlock let's go of Jim and sits back, "money is boring. Money is dreadfully common and plain and silly. When I came to the man with my proposition he asked for something in return. Not money though, he didn't want any of that. So, I made a better offer to him. I offered him...you."

Sherlock can't help slowing, Jim has zero heart, he is very convinced now. Jim, at such a young age offered him up as tribute to a maniac so that he could kill some girl. "But. Why. Does. This. Matter? This happened years ago, why bring this up now?" He asks firmly. He hates how Jim will draw something out with an open end just to frustrate him.

"Let me finish, I gave him all the information on you I could get my hands on. Then he just took you, simple as that. Some 'secluded' area as well. He _molested_ you, though he didn't fuck you, he wanted to keep you his own pure virgin or something like that." Jim grins up at him, proudly. "I even stopped by to have a look at you. That was when we first met, I saw you at your most vulnerable state," he gets up from his chair and looms over him like a shadow, he brings his voice to almost a motherly hush, "its our anniversary today, Sherlock. And have I got a present for you."

Sherlock at once stands up from the chair at that part, backing away, "I don't want anything from you," he says, keeping up a dull monotone even as he can hear his own heartbeat speed out of control. "Whatever it is..."

As he watches him back away, Jim makes his own deduction about how terrified Sherlock is, "it's not what you think it is, love. Its something that you hear about a lot in your line of work..." This only confuses Sherlock even more. As Jim talks, Sherlock has a physical reaction to the painful memories that come up from listening to his story about the kidnapping. Sherlock puts his hand to his chest and grasps at the place of his hearts site, convinced that it will explode at any moment. He backs into small polished table that holds a clear vase with white roses, from Sherlock's movements the vase falls, shatters, and spreads out broken glass and ripped petals as an unaffected Jim utters the quiet and yet powerful words, "I got you justice."

From the bed room, two men burst out, one is bound and beaten, the other is stern looking and seemed to have been the one that inflicted pain on the bruised, tied up man. Jim steps back and observes the scene. For a while, there is only silence. An awful freezing silence that is dead winter. It seems the only things that dare to move anymore or dare to show protests against this screaming quiet is the running water from the broken vase that surrounds Sherlock's feet and his run away train heart beat. The tied man's eye flits around the room. One is darkness blue and the other is empty dead skin where only a gash remains. "You..." Sherlock says, "you were the one that..." He remembers it all, being taken, the man with one eye that wouldn't stop touching him, even now the memory of Jim coming to see him in captivity blooms like a deranged flower inside of his mind.

The bound man who has fallen to the floor, his one eye meets Sherlock's eyes. He speaks in a hoarse and dry voice, one of crackling sandpaper "You've...grown." As soon as he says those words though, the other man shoves his foot down on the older man's rib cage, forcing him to wheeze and cough violently.

Jim steps back into the frame, "you see, Sherlock... Leland here never did get caught, nor did he go on trial for any crime he has committed." Sherlock's breath becomes short as he begins to panic and his body tightens from the tension, Jim puts his arm around him and brings him close, consoling him in a far to sweet way, "shhh, I know its hard now, but don't worry. It will be over for good soon." His arms go down Sherlock back, "it will all be over," he plucks the gun from Sherlock's belt and releases him.

Through short breaths Sherlock speaks, "what," nothing seems to work correctly in his mind, "what are you talking about?" He realizes that he is shaking now from the simple presence of the man who abducted him. Jim looks over the gun that he took from Sherlock and inspects it, recognizing it at John's gun. He steps through the split water and crushes the flowers.

"Justice. You are taking matters into your own hands now. You can't hide from this forever, Sherlock. Even if you'd like to." He grabs Sherlock's hands and shoves the gun into it, "this man hurt you, stole innocence, time for you to take something from him." He walks over to the wheezing man with no pity, he looks to the stern man then, "go for a walk, Seb. This won't take very long." The man nods to Jim and he kicks one eye one more time before leaving.

"No Jim," Sherlock slurs, finding it harder and harder to stop the room from spinning. "There is something else, you wouldn't just hand me this false justice out of good will... there is always something." Jim gets behind him and gently puts his hands on Sherlock's upper arms, helping him place them into a good stance for getting the least amount of recoil.

He moves back to the side, "I told you, this is my _gift_ to you. The lingering trauma is torture, am I right?" He keeps his face and voice serious now, "he doesn't deserve to live. Shoot him." Sherlock violently shakes his head but doesn't lower the gun, he has it pointed right at one eye. If he were to kill him, he wondered what would even happen next. Surely Jim wouldn't just let him leave just like that. Sherlock has a feeling that this is just part one to an extensive present. "Oh, darling... you have to act like the difficult one all the time. Its exhausting!" He takes out his phone, "remember that whole I can kill everyone in this hotel thing? Yes, there is that. Just shoot. Not only is it justice, but no one else will have to die... Shoot it." Jim's voice had such coldness to it, no amount of humanity in the command. Sherlock's eyes flicker at how Jim refers to him as an it.

He almost holds his breath, "just give me quiet," Sherlock says and gets closer and kneels down in front of the man who caused so much corruption to his mind, so much darkness. He speaks directly to Leland Spore for the first time in years, "you came the closest to ruining me," he mutters to the quaking man, "it may be unhealthy closure..." he gets so incredibly close and puts the gun barrel to one eye's forehead, "but its your life or theirs." Jim watches with excitement even as he can see a small tear drip down Sherlock's still and empty expression. "I'm not afraid of the dark." He pulls back the trigger and watches the blood shoot out on the other side of the mans head. Jim kneels down beside him as Sherlock collapses, he holds him tightly.

The water from the vase has mixes with the specs of blood, Sherlock stares down at it. He can't figure out why he feels so weak, but his abduction keeps playing in his head on repeat and the ringing in his ears from the gunshot only adds to the sickly mixture of emotion. "Happy Anniversary, Sherlock" He sets a light kiss on his cheek, "...I think I'll have that tea." Jim comes to a stand and walks to the kitchen, when he looks back, Sherlock has fallen on the ground, broken. His slowed mind races with nothing but replaying memory, blocking out any and all logic.

Jim reaches into his pocket, retrieving a tea bag and Sebastian Moran has reentered, joining Jim in the kitchen. Jim speaks quietly so that Sherlock won't hear him, "is he here yet?" Sebastian nods, "oh, good. Wouldn't want the good doctor to miss his own crime." He puts on the kettle and watches the steam rise, Sebastian waits expectantly for the okay to a demented order. Jim nods to him, "go ahead, have at it. Not too hard though, he is very sensitive." Sebastian walks from the kitchen toward Sherlock and Jim closes his eyes, smiling. He listens to the melodious sounds of Sherlock yells at each time that he is hit. Jim hears the water come to a boil and the whistle melds together with one of Sherlock's screams. He talks to himself. "Oh, love of my life, it may hurt now, but soon you will understand. For your doctor will come for you, oh he will come for you." Jim pours the water and listens for Sherlock to stop screaming, implying that he had the sedative injected into him. "hmm...that's good tea."


End file.
